


Sunday Mornings

by terrormusical



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-11
Updated: 2012-01-11
Packaged: 2017-10-29 08:51:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/317996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terrormusical/pseuds/terrormusical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Sundays are sacred between them.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunday Mornings

**Author's Note:**

> Ehh it's short but I was in the mood for cute weird mature-yet-awkward boy kissing. And smoking. Holla.

“Ready?”

His hair is black again, all spiky and messy and adorable like he just woke up. Gerard isn't stupid; he knows he's been waiting. An unlit cigarette is cinched between his index and middle finger, pressed tight against his hip, and he's standing rigid in the door way.

“You dyed your hair,” Gerard says, and Frank bristles, his brain screaming for nicotine. He's doing It on purpose. Gerard knows him too well, specifically recalling a time when Frank said _The longer you put it off the better it is,_ and he fixedly watched the younger boys lips as he exhaled, cursing around a steady stream of white smoke, and his eyes rolled back in his head. _Fuck, that's good,_ he had said. Gerard swallowed thickly.

“You're wearing eyeliner,” he points out curtly, stepping aside so that Gerard can step inside, out of the cold.

“It's Lindsey's,” Gerard admits, pulls his coat off and shivers, throws it over the back of Frank's ratty old couch and says, “Jersey is a bitch in the winter, Christ.”

Franks laughs over his shoulder, sharp in the thick, dizzy air, handing Gerard his half-empty pack of Marlboro reds and leads him upstairs.

 

Frank's bedroom is white, pure white, no posters on the walls, no comic books strewn across the floor. Gerard can't stand it. It makes his legs twitch uncomfortably as he reaches for another cigarette. It's the last in the pack, and their hands brush.

“Take it,” Frank says, tapping the ashes of his last into the ash tray between them.

“I've had, like, four, Frankie.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Frank crushes out his and reaches for the last one, long and clean and packed with all those wonderful chemicals that make Gerard's brain sigh, long and slow and wonderful, a billion tiny nerves all at once. He looks away, takes his last drag and lets his head fall against the headboard. “You need color in here.”

“I know,” Frank says. He does; he's heard it a thousand times before.

“So?” Gerard prompts.

“It's clean. I like it. It's a...” He gesticulates with his hands, the cigarette burning off lonesomely in his head. Gerard follows it with his eyes. “...It's a balance.”

Franks notices. “Christ, Gee, here.” He laughs as Gerard's lips purse around the cigarette, just touching his own fingers. They're soft.

“I'm entitled to this,” He says. “It's Sunday.”

And it is.

“Hey,” Frank says, out of nowhere, but Gerard doesn't mind it when Frank kisses him. It's open-mouthed and wet, slow and sweet. He relaxes his hand as soon as he realizes it's gripping the comforter that covers their legs, gathers around their waists. The sky is cerulean and orange in the thin slits of the blinds. The white blinds, Gerard notes, his eyes half open and staring over Frank's shoulder as he's kissed.

“Mm,” is all Frank says, dropping his cigarette into the ash tray.

It takes a few moments of long, comfortable silence as they sit in bed, just hardly half sated, staring at a blank white wall, but then Frank mutters, “I think I'd go crazy.”

There' more to the sentence but it swirls and dissipates like smoke in the air between them. Gerard knows exactly what he wanted to say.

Sundays are sacred between them. Sundays mean cigarettes, chain smoking more in an hour that they will in one normal day. Maybe Sundays mean a few lazy kisses, but only maybe, and only sometimes.

Sundays are safety.

“Kiss me again,” Gerard says, cocking his head. It's the first time he's ever asked, but Frank obliges, their lips meeting again, slipping between each other, their hands in their laps like always, tongues dancing slowly. Intoxicating.

“I'm gonna have to go soon,” Gerard says almost incoherently; his bottom lips is pinched between Frank's teeth.

“Shut up,” Frank sighs, whimpers, maybe, and Gerard doesn't know what to think, because his tone is just a little strange. “God, just—”

And Frank's hands are on his neck, Jesus, then Frank is in his lap, sitting on his thighs, his knees bracketing Gerard's hips. They're kissing with sudden abandon, too much passion for the small, chilly room. Too much of everything.

“Sorry,” Frank mumbles, wiping his hand with the back of his mouth, settling back on his side on the bed. “Sorry.”

Gerard cracks a smile, catching his breath, leaning forward to brush his lips against Frank's jaw then his cheek, and says, “It's Sunday, no worries.”


End file.
